


The Things in the Forest

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Established Relationship, Halloween, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Spooky, Village life, folk horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: On the way home from the village Halloween party, Crowley and Aziraphale cut through the old churchyard. That isn't even the scariest part of their night.(An attempt at some good old-fashioned British Folk Horror.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	The Things in the Forest

“Crowley! What if someone sees!” Aziraphale gasped, but he was also smiling and was very, very soft in Crowley's arms, so Crowley cheerfully both ignored him and played along.

“Like we're the first to do this? _Tonight_?” He smirked and kissed Aziraphale up against the old oak tree again. “It's a night where demons come out to play. I'm a demon.”

“What's your excuse all the other nights, then?” Aziraphale countered, even as he put an arm around Crowley's neck and pulled him in for another kiss.

“Don't need an excuse. 'm a demon,” Crowley said, and with this brilliant bit of lawyering done, he kissed Aziraphale very properly, a good old Halloween-night snog while the wind blew through the branches of the oak tree.

“Dearest.” Aziraphale kissed him back, and Crowley could _feel_ the blush on his cheeks. “We're very naughty.”

“'s the time of year for it,” Crowley said, and added, for good measure. “Loving you's that bad?”

“Crowley! You know that's not what I meant, you mustn't twist my words,” Aziraphale scolded, and kissed him, enough to shut him up for a few moments while his brain rebooted.

“You know very well I was referring to, well, _lurking in the shadows_. Especially when there's a perfectly good party going on,” he said.

“Want another caramel apple, angel?” Crowley asked, smiling at him. Pushed up against a tree, in the soft autumn dark, Aziraphale was particularly ravishing. Especially with the little pout he had.

“Well...”

“C'mon, then. I want to take another crack at the tombola,” Crowley said, and offered his arm.

Aziraphale smiled, darted forward, and kissed Crowley's cheek. “You are a dear,” he said, slipping his arm through Crowley's and resting his head on Crowley's shoulder a moment, the nicest, dweebiest little move ever. Crowley's traitorous heart melted.

To be fair to Aziraphale, the chaos of the Halloween/Harvest Festival had muted slightly as the night wore on and the smallest children were either settled down to sleep in a pram or the back seat of a car, or fully taken home to have their sugary meltdowns. What had started with a mob running through now-empty fields, purely for the joy of running under the moon and screaming, was now a cheerful little village party. There was a table with hot cider and tea and cakes and sandwiches, and a few other little games were scattered here and there, bobbing for apples and the like. A small costume contest had been conducted, for both children and adults. Crowley had wanted to enter dressed as an angel, but when his own actual angel had threatened divorce, had opted to simply applaud the eventual winner from the sidelines.

“You're no fun,” he had muttered.

“You're not remotely as charming as you think,” Aziraphale had muttered back. 

(Joke was on him. Crowley had picked up a Sexy Angel costume that would absolutely make a debut as soon as possible. He might get dropped out a window, but it would be worth it.)

They visited the table with the caramel apples again, Crowley buying them each one. The apples were local ones, and very crisp and sharp, the tang cutting the sweet caramel beautifully. They glued their teeth together with the caramel and drank cups of cider to try and free themselves. Crowley took another try at the tombola, as that encouraged gambling and also the vicar himself was manning it so maybe Crowley would tempt him just by kind of....being...?

Anyway, he won a pair of absolutely hideous bookends, and was rather proud of it too, and they had made another round and been neighbourly, so neither felt too badly about bidding the festival goodbye.

“C'mon, angel, let's walk through the cemetery,” Crowley begged. “It'll be so spooky tonight!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I don't understand you and spooky. It'll be peaceful, just like it is every night.”

“But Halloween!” Crowley grinned. “ _C'monnnn_.”

“Well, of course,” Aziraphale allowed, carefully dignified. “It's just that I don't know what you're expecting. We know there's no ghosts there.”

“Yeah, but humans don't know that, so there's a lovely spooky feel.” Crowley said happily as they turned down the road that lead to the village cemetery. It was a little out of their way, but they were hardly bothered by a bit of a ramble at night. Crowley could see perfectly well in the dark of course, and Aziraphale even did a bit better than most humans. Besides, there were streetlights enough.

They went through the lych gate, and very spooky it was, Crowley commented. These old places just had a  _feel_ about them you didn't get in your modern cemeteries, where they oiled the gate hinges and hardly had any yew trees at all.

Aziraphale sighed but held his peace – Crowley had patiently waited for him outside plenty of little country churches while he admired the stained glass and read the brasses, so fair was fair. And while it might not have been spooky, it  _was_ rather nice in the cold autumn air, his belly still warm from the cider. And there was a definite aesthetic to the tree branches against the sky and the rattling brown leaves; one thought of mortality and harvests and the like. Very seasonal, and it was nice to see Crowley so happy without involving actual demonic mischief.

They wandered the graveyard and admired a few particularly nice statues. There wasn't even anyone else there, which Crowley noted with some disappointment. “Need some more goths in the village,” he commented. “Used to be you couldn't go for stroll without stumbling over a half-dozen youngsters in eyeliner. Out of fashion now, though, I s'pose.”

“It will come back in time, then,” Aziraphale said with the peace of a being who had seen fashions come back around so regularly he was often accidentally in the vanguard of fashion. And just as often tragically behind. All while wearing the exact same outfit.

Crowley made a contented little agreeing noise and reached for his hands, lacing their fingers together. Oh, this was really lovely; Aziraphale would happily walk through churchyards all night, if it meant he was holding hands with his Crowley.

It wasn't a large place, though, and soon enough they were leaving by a back gate, having decided to take the path through the woods home. It was just about as long – or as short – a ramble as going by road, but it was a pleasant, witchy sort of night, and staying in the forest seemed somehow apropos.

Aziraphale actually did miracle up a small light to float in front of them; wouldn't do to trip over a root and muss his suit. It was a low light, though, and the forest was still full of dark shadows and soft night-sounds. Something little ran away from them as they walked, and they kept hold of each others' hand. They weren't human, but that was what humans did at night in the forest. They held hands, and reminded each other that they weren't alone.

The path was smooth and narrow, and they disturbed the forest undergrowth, just a little, just enough to make a soft shushing sound from ferns and the like which covered the louder shushing sound. At least, until they came to a crossroads, where their path crossed a wider one.

Crowley, with his longer stride, set foot right where the paths crossed first, a little clearing that was lit by moonlight, the clouds breaking up in a wind that kicked up high above them. It set the tree branches rattling and what leaves there were whispering, and Aziraphale looked up to see the watercolour of grey-on-black, the clouds that skittered and shredded across the sky to reveal a red Hunter's moon.

He looked over just as Crowley's hand tightened in his, and every hair on the back of his neck stood up. 

There, beside them in the small clearing, was a...creature. 

White. Tattered, but oh, not wholly white. Ribbons streamed from its great body. Some were impossibly ancient, hand-woven of rough wool, then more recent, the old silk ribbons Aziraphale had worn in her hair when she was a she, centuries ago. Newer yet, polyester, sad and ragged. There were things  _tied_ to it, but Aziraphale couldn't quite see. A crystal, perhaps, or the heart of a rabbit, or a stick or a coin.

There was a clacking sound and the thing reared up, even though it had no legs. It had a skull, though, a long thing like a cow's, with antlers of impossible bone-coloured lace. Its jaw clacked, great teeth snapping together, and it came back down with a mighty thump.

Aziraphale gripped Crowley's hand. “You...see that, right?” he whispered.

“Uh huh,” Crowley whispered, squeezing back tightly. “It's...have you seen one before?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

The thing turned its head (well, its skull?) and a pinpoint of blue gazed at Aziraphale. He gazed back, met the thing's eye for a moment, and wished he hadn't.

_Smell of earth and leaf mould, turn of year, leap of a stag, the forest is MINE_

“Move,” Crowley said, and pulled Aziraphale through the clear spot, back to their path. They were running now, even Aziraphale who did not move faster than an amble if he could possibly help it. Running, the angel-light showing the way and Crowley tripped over a root anyway but Aziraphale hauled him up and they ran on, bursting through the forest to the edge of the field that bordered their own land.

They slowed on the path between harvested fields, wide in the open. The clouds were over the moon again and the wind had died down into a cold and stony night.

“That definitely just happened, right?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale was still puffing away, catching his breath, but he nodded. “Definitely. Definitely just happened.”

“Quick question,” Crowley said. “What the fuck?”

“Not one of yours?” Aziraphale had been bent over, hands on his knees, but he slowly regained his breath.

“No! Good Somebody, no!” Crowley shook his head. “I'm not scared of _my side_.”

A definite silence.

“Not like _that_ ,” Crowley protested. “Anyway, not really our style. That was pure folkloric, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Well it definitely wasn't my side. Which leave folklore.” He sighed and finally stood upright, straightening his jacket. “I have a few books of local history at home. Let's see what they say, if anything.”

Crowley held out his hand, and of course Aziraphale took it, and they walked the short distance to home together, both of them very quiet, and very carefully listening for the sound of clacking.

Crowley turned on every light in the cottage, nearly, and put on the kettle while Aziraphale made a beeline for his library.

He already had a half-dozen books laid open and tiny stupid glasses perched on his nose when Crowley came up with a tray, and really, it was enough to make one seethe. Or fall deeper in love. Crowley did both, setting Aziraphale's mug near enough to reach but far enough to not get caught by an elbow. He leaned over his angel, an arm over his shoulders, and took in the books.

“Any luck?” he asked. At least half of the tomes had been written by past vicars, so likely no luck there. But that old water-stained volume... _that_ looked like it contained delicious creepy village secrets.

“I do believe so, my dear,” Aziraphale said absently, pushing the stained volume aside and pulling a very new, rather shiny book closer. It had a cheap binding and was one of those things that was written and printed wholly to be sold to tourists. Crowley despaired at the poetry of the world, or lack thereof.

Aziraphale checked the index, flipped through, and skimmed a page, stopping and tapping a paragraph. “A-ha! Well, I have a name at least.”

“...Great?”

Aziraphale shot him an annoyed look. “It's been five minutes, it's a  _start_ . We have met 'ollow Jonny, apparently.”

“The rural accent being a part of his name?” Crowley asked.

“Their name,” Aziraphale said primly. “We don't know gender for certain. But the description rather matches.”

“Any other details?” Crowley asked, squinting at the book. Good Lord, who had _printed_ this thing?

“Not terribly many,” Aziraphale admitted. “No one really knows what it's...for. But there've been sightings for as long as the village has been here, and _that_ at least goes back to the Domesday Book. Nothing terribly unusual, I must say. Appears in the forest, just stands around and clacks at you, that kind of thing.”

They both paused, listening carefully for the sound of teeth rattling in a skull.

“I'm sure it's very powerful and interesting and important to this place,” Crowley said loudly. “And, er. Handsome.”

Aziraphale rested his face in his hand, and then took a good slug of tea and learned it wasn't  _just_ tea. Thank heavens. “I'll call on Meg the Cat tomorrow,” he decided. “Her family's been here forever. Possibly came out of the earth themselves after the Flood. She'll know, if anyone does.”

Crowley rested a hand on Aziraphale's back, thumb brushing the nape of his neck. “Reckon she will. It doesn't...hunt anyone down or anything like that?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Doesn't seem to. It didn't follow us out of the forest. Perhaps we were simply...blocking its way. On the path.”

“I'm sure it had a very important event to get to,” Crowley said dryly, and they both jumped when the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight.

“I wonder if...that was it?” Aziraphale started to close all the books. 

“P'raps. Watch a film with me?” Crowley offered, and, unusually, Aziraphale accepted. They were hardly going to _sleep_ tonight. No need, after all. Demons and angels didn't need sleep. Could watch _Funny Girl_ all night if they liked.

If Aziraphale had looked out of his study window, he would have seen their back garden, still in the autumn night. He would have seen the shed and the mostly-barren earth, but for some winter veg Crowley had put in.

He would not have seen a skull white in the moonlight, its ragged-cloth body and ribbons and talismans. That's because the moon was behind the clouds, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> 'ollow Jonny is my own invention (as far as I know), but is based pretty heavily on the Welsh Mari Llwyd and less heavily on Padstow's 'obby 'oss, with some influence from T. Kingfisher's The Twisted Ones. (Which is in turn influenced by Arthur Machen, so, uh, I guess I'm really writing specifically Welsh folk horror. Compounded by Meg the Cat following a fairly old Welsh naming tradition.)
> 
> Happy Halloween!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


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